


SUMMER.

by herxndale



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herxndale/pseuds/herxndale
Summary: After the events of Infinity War, Sam Wilson finds himself trapped in paradise with no memories of how he got there. Plagued with nightmares and desperate to uncover the truth, Sam must try to convince his secretive companion to reveal what really happened when Thanos snapped his fingers.Sam Wilson x Gender Neutral Reader(Prompt: "You're hiding something and I don't know what it is but I'm sick of the lies.")





	SUMMER.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece takes place after Thanos’s snap and describes Sam’s time in the afterlife or whatever parallel universe the soul stone took him to. I may have used Anthony Mackie’s comment about Jamaica from [the dreaded ACE Comic Con panel](https://youtu.be/q4XiBWDf7Fo?t=1h17m18s) as inspiration. I apologize in advance if this fanfic is boring; it’s more of a character-driven story than a plot-driven story. Anywho, I hope I do Sam’s character justice, as this is my first time writing for him. Enjoy!
> 
> ** WARNINGS: Mild language. Infinity War spoilers. **
> 
> (this was written as an entry to a [writing challenge](http://hollandroos.tumblr.com/post/175662460776/sophs-12k-writing-challenge) on Tumblr)

****Death was far less painful than Sam Wilson imagined it would be. He had been dragging himself across the forest floor of Wakanda, his fingers clutching at dirt and brush as he desperately tried to haul himself upright, and then — nothing. Darkness enveloped his mind and body, caressing his skin and pressing chilly kisses against his cheeks. He felt weightless, his limbs held aloft by some unknown force, the once-incessant pounding in his skull now gone. If he had known dying would be this pleasant, Sam would never have feared it. He may have even welcomed it.

Thoughts drifted through Sam’s head but floated away before they fully formed. Soon, he had no recollection of who he had once been. His struggles and successes were eaten up by that soft, encompassing darkness until he was nothing but a name. The rage and guilt and sorrow that had plagued Sam when he was alive vanished, and the sensation was so liberating that he did not notice when he could no longer recognize his friends’ laugher or his mother’s face.

All of Sam’s cares and worries had spiraled into nothing like smoke on a summer breeze; he lost any concept of time as seconds or hours or decades passed. Eventually, the comfort of cold shadows slowly melted away and Sam’s body began to regain its normal heaviness, though his soul remained airy and light and empty.

Wooden slats dug into Sam’s bare back as he lay beneath a harsh sun that heated his bones. A salty wind lazily soothed the sweat already beginning to pinprick Sam’s skin, the sound of gulls and gently rolling waves lapping against a sandy shore reawakening his senses. He cracked his eyes open, blinking rapidly and bringing a hand up to protect his gaze from the bright white light that beat down on him.

Sam eased himself into a seated position, observing the reclined chair beneath him and the thin linen shorts he wore. In front of him a calm blue-green ocean burbled happily, and everywhere else there was fine, pale sand that stretched for miles. For as far as Sam could see, the beach was flat and empty, completely devoid of any life other than himself.

Once, Sam might have found the abandoned expanse of land and utter lack of human voices or activity to be eerie. But as he swung his legs over the side of the chair and buried his toes in the scalding sand, all Sam felt was peace within his deceased heart.

With nothing else to do, Sam began to walk along the surf of the sea, savoring every deep inhale of briny air.

He walked until the sun fell and the sky blackened, billions upon billions of stars blinking to life. Sam was not tired, but he lowered himself to the ground nonetheless, curling up in the frothing foam and willing his eyelids to slide shut.

The warm water crept forward, sliding over Sam’s legs and shoulders and neck. Salt clung to his lips, although perhaps the saline was from the tears sliding down the bridge of his nose rather than the ocean waves. Sam did not know why he was crying, as he had no memories, but the sobs wracked his entire body. He wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged himself tight, his breath slowing as sleep claimed him.

***

_Sam was sixteen and sitting in the kitchen of his childhood home in Harlem. He was wearing ratty plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt depicting the album art of an old jazz musician as he hurriedly shoveled cereal into his mouth. He was hoping to finish breakfast and slip out the back door before —_

_“Sam, baby?” His mother poked her head into the cramped kitchen, immediately frowning when she saw him scarfing down cheerios in his sleepwear. “Why aren’t you dressed?”_

_Glancing guiltily at his mother’s church attire and the decorative blue hat she held in her hands, Sam said, “I’m not going to church today, Mama.”_

_Mrs. Wilson’s face twisted and her cheeks reddened as if she had just been slapped. Her voice was low and deadly, fury fluttering beneath her words as she uttered, “Excuse me?”_

_Sam sat up a little straighter. “I said I’m not going to church with you.”_

_A child’s hands appeared, little fingers grasping at her mother’s skirt as Sarah Wilson peered into the room to stare at her eldest brother. From the hall, Minister Wilson called, “Is everybody ready? If we don’t leave soon, we’re gonna be late.”_

_Sam’s mother crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Samuel says he ain’t goin’. Thinks he’s above the Lord, now.”_

_“Mama,” Sam tried to protest, his spoon falling from his hand and hitting the bottom of the bowl noisily._

_Another head poked its way into the kitchen doorway, and the middle Wilson child declared, “If Sam’s not goin’ to church, then I’m not either!”_

_Mrs. Wilson gave Sam a withering glare before turning and saying in a placating voice, “Gideon, baby, if you wanna be a minister like your daddy then you gotta go to church.”_

_Gideon looked down, kicking at the floor with the toe of one of his scuffed dress shoes. “I don’t wanna be a minister like Daddy,” he said under his breath._

_Before Mrs. Wilson could start yelling, Minister Wilson squeezed himself into the doorway. He placed one of his large hands on his wife’s shoulder and ruffled his daughter’s messy curls with the other. “What’s going on?”_

_“Tell your eldest son to get off his ass and get ready for church,” Mrs. Wilson demanded._

_Minister Wilson tilted his head to one side, squinting his eyes and running his tongue along his lower lip like he always did when he was thinking. “What’s wrong, son?”_

_Sam slouched in his chair, the woven wicker seat groaning beneath him. “I just don’t wanna go,” he muttered._

_“What was that, boy?” Mrs. Wilson snapped._

_“Hey, now,” Minister Wilson tried to cool his wife’s temper before it could fully explode._

_Mrs. Wilson stepped away from her husband’s touch and stalked closer to Sam, her expression stormy. “I just don’t understand why Samuel thinks he’s so high an’ mighty all of a sudden,” she seethed, “What’s wrong with goin’ to church, huh? Got a problem with God?”_

_Sam’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching with anger. His gaze darted to his father, who was still contemplating to situation at hand, before returning to his livid mother. “I ain’t got a problem with God, Mama.”_

_“Then what is it?” She snarled. “I didn’t raise no heathen.”_

_Uncoiling from the corner of the kitchen that he had shrunken into, Sam sprung to his feet and yelled, “It’s not God, Mama, it’s you! I got a problem with_ you _. You act like there ain’t nothin’ wrong so long as we got food on the table and the Lord up above. You’re blind, Mama! People —_ our _people — are dying out there and you just turn the other way be-because what? You think black men and women would stop being shot at if they started prayin’ like you do? I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit!”_

_“You watch your mouth, boy,” Mrs. Wilson breathed, fury simmering in her deep brown gaze. Beside her, Gideon’s face was torn between awe and horror at his brother’s recklessness, and Sarah looked like she was about to cry._

_Minister Wilson had been watching the exchange very carefully, his infinite wisdom missing nothing. He cleared his throat. “Darlene,” he said sharply, “Let’s get goin’ now. I got a service to preach in fifteen minutes. Samuel’s old enough to make his own decisions; he can stay home if he wants to.”_

_Mrs. Wilson gritted her teeth but didn’t argue. “Sarah, Gideon, let’s go,” she ordered, taking each of them by the hand and storming out of the room. Neither child dared to argue as they scrambled to keep up with their mother._

_Sam slowly met his father’s gaze, his shoulders tense with fear of what he would say. Minister Wilson, however, simply looked sad. Understanding filled his eyes, and he gestured for his son to come forward. Sam tentatively stepped in front of his father. He froze with surprise as Minister Wilson swept him into a tight embrace. When the shock wore off, Sam wrapped his arms around his father’s shoulders._

_“I know it’s not easy, son,” Minister Wilson murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “The world is a fucked up place and your mama…well, she doesn’t always know how to cope with it.” Minister Wilson pulled away so he could examine Sam properly. Tears shone in both of their eyes. “Stay strong for me, Sam-boy, a’ight? We’ll make it through this.”_

_Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak without crying. With a final smile, Minister Wilson clapped Sam on the shoulder and left. This would be the last time Sam ever saw his father._

***

A gull shrieked and a violent wave crashed against the sand, startling Sam awake. He gasped, his throat working, his fists opening and closing, all of his muscles tight from a visceral reaction to a dream he could not remember. Squinting up at the sun, his brain wracked itself for some recollection of the images that had played on the backs of his eyelids just moments before. But nothing surfaced, and the hollowness that rested beneath Sam’s ribcage remained.

Beside him, a page crinkled as it turned.

Sam scrambled to sit up and looked over at the source of the noise. You sat atop a wooden chair identical to his, your legs crossed one over the other and a magazine balanced on your knees. Oversized sunglasses perched themselves on the bridge of your nose, but your feet were bare and you wore an outfit made of the same white linen as Sam’s shorts. You licked your slightly chapped lips and turned another page.

“Hello,” Sam said, his voice rough with disuse. You did not reply; you didn’t even glance his way. Frowning, Sam slid his legs off the side of his chair so that he way fully facing you. He cleared his throat and tried again: “Hello.”

A sigh hissed through your teeth. “Hello,” you echoed, your attention never drifting from the magazine.

Many quiet minutes passed. You continued flipping pages and Sam stared at you as if expecting you to start explaining who you were and what this place was. When you didn’t speak up, Sam introduced himself, “My name is Sam. Sam Wilson.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, contemplating whether or not you should reply. Finally, you said, “I’m (Y/N).”

“Where are we?” Sam asked.

“Paradise.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward him. “Yours, specifically.”

Sam’s forehead creased as his brows drew together in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

It was as if Sam’s mind was short circuiting. He had no idea what events had led to his arrival in this so-called paradise, but when he pressed his fingers to the inside of his wrist, the shadow of a pulse still persisted. If he was not dead, then he must be —

A bitter smile twisted your mouth, your focus never shifting from the magazine in your lap. “You aren’t dreaming.”

Sam’s expression remained baffled. “If this is  _my_  paradise,” he said slowly, “Then why are  _you_  here?”

You coughed, amusement coloring your words as you replied, “I would imagine it’s difficult to come up with entirely unique utopias for half the universe. But I’ll try not to be too offended that you’d rather spend eternity alone.”

“Eternity?” Sam echoed, that dreadful, lonely word heavy with despair.

There was a pause. Then, rather abruptly, you snapped your magazine shut and stood up. Folding the glossy papers and tucking them beneath your arm, you tilted your head and gestured toward Sam with coaxing fingers. “Follow me.”

Sam obliged, trailing after you as you led him away from the water. The journey proceeded in silence, the only sounds coming from the shifting sand underfoot. After what felt like hours, you stopped atop a particularly large dune, smiling softly as Sam’s feet froze and his jaw dropped. Before him lay a sprawling oasis, towering palm trees casting shade over tiny waterfalls that cascaded into a natural pool of sparkling blue. A quaint, wooden structure with a straw roof and honey-gold fairy lights dotting the porch railing overlooked the slice of perfection.

You spread your arms wide and said proudly, “Welcome to your paradise, Sam Wilson. It takes the form of wherever you feel most at peace.”

A low, impressed whistle slipped from Sam’s lips, and he felt as if he were levitating as he entered the oasis. The beauty of the land surrounding him was more than surreal — it was impossible. But as you pushed past him and marched over to the glittering pool, Sam forgot about impossibility and instead joined you by the rocks bordering the water.

Sitting on a large, flat stone, you dangled your feet in the pool, kicking them absentmindedly and creating ripples along the otherwise tranquil surface. The magazine from earlier was once again open and resting upon your thighs, your rapt gaze fervently scanning its pages.

Sam lowered himself beside you, leaving a comfortable space between your bodies. He stole glances at the paper that had ensnared your attention, but the magazine appeared to be entirely blank; each page that you flipped was completely white. He couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “Why’re you reading a blank magazine?”

You blinked up at him, looking mildly surprised. “Is that what you see?”

Sam frowned, scooting closer to you by a fraction of an inch. “What are you seeing?”

Taking one last peek at the magazine before shutting it and setting it out of reach, you gave Sam a strained smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes. But your voice still sounded cool and unruffled as you replied, “Just a blank magazine. Shall we?” You gestured toward the glinting water.

Something snagged in Sam’s mind, and he couldn’t help the inexplicable apprehension that washed over him. The feeling was heavy, palpable — he could taste the wrongness on his tongue. But the more he tried to place where the foreboding in his gut had come from, the less it seemed to plague him. Eventually the sensation wilted and withered away, the lingering residue of uneasiness gobbled up by the glaring sun.

Shaking himself out of his daze, Sam squinted at you. “Sorry?”

You let out a breathy laugh and pushed yourself off the rock, gracefully slipping into the pool. “Come on,” you urged him, “It’s nice.”

Sam sighed, but followed you nonetheless. The water was not very deep, and only reached the middle of his torso. Small waves lapped at his ribcage, the temperature pleasant and cooling in the dense heat. He peered down at his hands through the translucent, aquamarine water, the corners of his lips tugging upward in a bemused smile at the sight of his fingers appearing to ripple and bend.

When Sam lifted his gaze, he found you already watching him from where you stood a few feet away. You looked pensive, your brows pinched and your mouth pulled into a tiny frown. Sensing his shift in focus, you quickly wiped away your concern. “Eternity here doesn’t seem so bad, right?” You asked, trying to keep your words casual and devoid of the hope that gripped your heart.

Tipping his head back and closing his eyes, Sam breathed deeply. “I guess it could be worse.”

Without even thinking about it, you confessed, “Honestly, this place is everything I needed after what happened.” 

The instant the sentence left your lips you knew it had been a mistake. You swore inwardly, mentally bashing yourself for your stupidity. Sam straightened abruptly, his attention snapping to you. His voice was low as he uttered, “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly finding your nails extremely interesting. Your eyes darted to him before swiftly lowering once more. “Never mind.”

Sam surged toward you, ignoring your alarm as you steadily backed away. He halted when you were pressed against the edge of the spring and he could feel your rapid breathing on his chest. He didn’t say anything for a moment, fighting the startling impulse to glance down at your body, which was now on full display since the water had turned your white clothes transparent. He struggled to keep his voice even and prayed that he wasn’t staring at your lips as he demanded, “What do you mean  _after what happened_?”

You gulped nervously. “I don’t — nothing. I don’t know. Forget it.”

The two of you lapsed into a tense silence, frozen in place and unwilling to back down. Finally, you tore your gaze away from Sam’s and looked toward the sky. Calmly, you remarked, “It’s going to rain tomorrow.”

Sam glanced upward. The sky was an endless swath of cloudless, brilliant blue. “Doesn’t look like it,” he told you.

A taunting smirk quirked your lips. “Wanna bet?”

With an annoyed grunt, Sam turned away. You watched as he heaved himself out of the pool and onto the rocky shore, water sluicing off his body and dripping in his wake as he began to walk away. “I’m gonna go explore,” he said over his shoulder.

Your shoulders slumped with disappointment, although you weren’t entirely sure why you were so crestfallen to see him leave. It wasn’t like you were friends with him; all you knew about Sam was what you remembered from when you were alive, and your memory was hazy at best.

You sighed. “Have fun,” you called dully after Sam.

 


End file.
